


Cantata on the Death of Boromir II

by calicomary



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:28:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29451570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicomary/pseuds/calicomary
Summary: It starts with a petition from a musician.
Kudos: 2





	Cantata on the Death of Boromir II

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know much about the Books. Did a bit of googling about this elf called Daeron.

The petition, when it comes, is unexpected. Aragorn is learning the finer points and headaches of tax collection and expenses from Faramir and the Court Treasurer, a man who seems to be in the last decade of his life and has the stoop to prove it. At least, Aragorn supposes, having such a pronounced hunch makes it easier to ensure all of one’s numbers are lined in the appropriate columns on the paper.

“My lord,” a page interrupts them and Aragorn tries not to look too relieved. “I have an urgent message from the Head of the Musicians Guild, Ludovir.” The page waves a paper in his hand.

Aragorn turns to look at Faramir with a confused frown and says, “I didn’t know there was a Musicians Guild.”

Faramir is wearing a frown of his own. “There isn’t,” he says simply and walks over to grab the paper. His frown deepens as he reads the message and he speaks to the page. “Where is Ludovir, now?”

“In the entrance hall, shall I tell him the King,” The page begins but Faramir interrupts him.

“Tell him to go home. When the king is ready to see him, he will be summoned.” Faramir says sternly. The page looks uncertainly to Aragorn who gives Faramir a strange look. “I know this man,” Faramir explains, “There are things you need to know before you speak with him.”

“Tell Master Ludovir that I will summon him tomorrow morning,” Aragorn instructs the page, who bows and leaves the chamber.

“With permission, sire, I will leave you and the Steward to discuss…the Musicians Guild,” the Treasurer says with a chuckle, turning to leave at Aragorn’s nod.

“Don’t call it that,” Faramir says to the treasurer’s back. He rereads the message and shakes his head, then mutters, “Ridiculous man.”

“Well, who is Master Ludovir of the mysterious Musicians Guild that does not exist?” Aragorn asks once the door has been shut.

“He is a nuisance,” Faramir says with a sigh. “He was a friend of Boromir. If there was one flaw that my father found in my brother, it was that Boromir could be friends with such a man as Ludovir.”

“I do not recall Boromir speaking of him,” Aragorn says.

“He would not have,” Faramir says and smiles at a memory. “It would not have done for Boromir to speak publicly of any relationship with Ludovir. As I said the man is a nuisance. I am surprised he actually wrote a petition and did not attempt to storm the room himself, armed with violin and bow to sway you in his favor.”

Aragorn chuckles at the image and holds his hand out. “Let me read the petition,” he says and Faramir dutifully hands it over. “To my Lord King of Gondor, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I, Ludovir, Master of the Musicians Guild in the city of Minas Tirith, petition you for the position of court composer, that I might write many musical works honoring our Kingdom, among them a cantata on the death of Boromir, son of Denethor.” Aragorn ponders the message a moment before asking, “What is a cantata?”

“It is word he made up for a lament that is far too long and accompanied by far too many instruments,” Faramir says.

“I thought you liked music,” Aragorn says.

“I do!” Faramir says perhaps a little too defensively. “What that man writes is not music. Do not take his petition for a position seriously, for he is constitutionally incapable of serving at court.”

*****************8

Aragorn recounts the petition and Faramir’s strange reaction with Arwen that night.

“I am finding it difficult to imagine Boromir holding close friendships with musicians,” Arwen says

“You are not alone in that.” Aragorn says. “I think there is more to their friendship than what Faramir has said.”

“Will you grant his petition?” Arwen asks.

“First I must know how good a musician he is,” Aragorn said.

“Sire,” the guard’s voice breaks Aragorn’s attention away from designs for reconstructing the city’s many damaged buildings.. “Master Ludovir has arrived. He apologizes for his tardiness.”

Aragorn glances out the window to check the sun’s position in the sky and notes that it is just past midday. “Let him in,” he tells the guard.

The guard bows swiftly and leaves, returning shortly with the composer. The man is quite short but clearly of sturdy build. He wears the breeches of an old servant’s uniform and white silk shirt with pink neckcloth. The outfit is complimented with a bright green long jacket. Sprouting from Ludovir’s head is a shock of black and silver hair which appears to have been touched by neither comb nor brush for days if not months. The man’s forehead is broad and with heavy brows that do nothing to hide the gleam of his eyes, which seem to spark with a manic energy. By his side he carries a case. Ludovir makes an abortive gesture which could be a bow or a muscle spasm.

“Your Majesty,” He says.

“Master Ludovir,” Aragorn says, “Your reply to my summons indicated you would be arriving some two hours ago.”

Ludovir nods and says, “My apologies but I had to be certain that Lord Faramir would not be present when we spoke.”

Aragorn frowns at this and asks, “Do you have a reason to distrust my Steward?”

“Of course not!” Ludovir fairly shouts, then lowers his voice, “I just don’t like him very much. I imagine he has expressed to you that he has similar feelings about me.” Aragorn nods and Ludovir continues, “He believes, erroneously I might add, that I was a bad influence on Captain Boromir.”

“In what way?” Aragorn asks, more than a little curious.

Ludovir grins mysteriously and says, “You would have to ask him. But here!” Ludovir opened his case and pulled out a violin and bow, “Before anything else, you must listen.” Ludovir brings the instrument to his shoulder and breathes deeply as he begins to pull the bow across the strings.

As he listens, Aragorn cannot understand how Faramir could say the sounds Ludovir draws from his instrument are not music. He feels almost transported by the majestic tones and he begins to picture something in his mind’s eye. It begins indistinct and just as it starts to take shape Ludovir stops playing. Aragorn has to take a deep and breath before he says anything. “What was that?”

“It is the opening section of a march I wrote for Boromir’s farewell to the city when he journeyed to Imladris,” Ludovir says as he packs the instrument away. “I started writing another march for his victorious return but that will remain unfinished. Obviously.” Ludovir laughs humorlessly.

“I traveled many months with Boromir, yet he never spoke of you,” Aragron says. “Or of any positive feelings towards music for that matter.”

“You met him in a city of Elves, yes?” Ludovir asks. Aragorn nods and Ludovir says, “You yourself have spent many years with the Elves. Perhaps you hummed an Elvish love song now and then?” Aragorn again nods, this time sheepishly. Ludovir smiled softly before saying, “Boromir did not like Elvish music and with the way the Elves have influenced much of the art of Men, he also was not enamored of most other music that could be found in these lands.”

“But he liked your music,” Aragorn concluded.

Ludovir laughed and said, “What he could understand of it. We generally spoke of things _other_ than music.”

Aragorn leans back in his chair before asking, “How is it that you did not already have a position in Denethor’s court?”

Ludovir’s nostrils flare and his eyes grow wide. After a few deep breaths, Ludovir explains, “I served the previous Steward faithfully for 5 years as court composer, writing music for his halls and instructing his children in the ways of melody and harmony. But he began to distrust my artistic vision, which I could not stand for and so I was dismissed. That was 20 years ago.”

“And how have you spent these last 20 years, plying your trade as a bard?” Aragorn asks.

“I am no bard!” Ludovir says furiously. “I do not sing bawdy tales for a hot meal at a tavern or a room at an inn.” Ludovir’s tone becomes milder and he explains, “I find seasonal employment writing accompaniment for the theater plays on the 2nd level. It is dreadful work not least because the musicians are amateurs and the city’s taste has leaned towards comedy more than drama for the last hundred years. The rest of my time is occupied by composing for a singular purpose.”

“And that is?” Aragorn asks.

“To proclaim the glory of Gondor!” Ludovir says with passion. He takes a step back and clasps his hands behind his back. “The situation is thus: It is my wish that the cantata for Boromir be performed in this hall with a full orchestra and choir but whether the wish will be granted has no bearing on it being written. What I have in my heart must out and he deserves nothing less than the full measure of my abilities, not least because of the lies _you_ have spread about him.”

Aragorn stood from the throne and marched down to stand nose to nose with the composer. “What did you just say?” he asked menacingly.

Ludovir matched Aragorn’s tone, “If you do not spread them yourself you allow them to sprout like weeds. That Boromir was a betrayer of oaths and a traitor to the world of Men. That he attacked a member of his own company. That with his treachery he nearly ruined the mission to destroy Sauron. These are lies, yes?”

Aragron grinds his jaw for a moment before saying, “They are not lies.”

Ludovir shakes his head wildly and nearly shouts, “I do not believe that! I cannot!”

Aragorn calms himself quickly, recognizing that if one of them does not control their emotions the conversation may turn to blows. “You must understand,” he says. “He was not himself.”

“Not himself? Then who was he?” Ludovir asks.

Aragorn isn’t quite sure how to answer that question, so he lets it hang in the air like a dandelion on the breeze. He eyes Ludovir up and down and finally says, “Write the cantata. If you can find an orchestra and choir, the piece can be performed at this court. They would be unpaid. Orchestras and choirs cost money, much of which must be spent instead on repairs to the city.”

Ludovir shakes his head with a smile and says, “You will find volunteers enough among the amateur singers and musicians in the city when they know who it is for and that I have written it.”

“And what of the Musician’s Guild? Will they be sending volunteers?” Aragorn asks wryly.

“I am the Musician’s Guild,” Ludovir says with a wink. He takes 3 steps backwards and bows deeply. “You will not be disappointed.”

“This is not becoming of a king,” Faramir says helplessly as he watches Aragorn don a stained cloak over the plain clothes he has put on. “We employ spies for exactly this purpose.”

Aragorn looks askance at Faramir and says, “Our spies have better things to do than skulk about after musicians.”

“But kings do not?” Faramir asks innocently.

Aragorn adjusts his cloak so that it hangs askew, “Please Faramir,” Aragorn implores the other man. “I have been trapped inside this castle taking meetings and petitions for weeks. Allow me to have a little direct sunlight for a few hours.”

Faramir frowns and warns, ““Ludovir has keen eyes. Do not be surprised if he recognizes you.”

“I have 6 decades more experience at being a ranger than you. I know how to disguise myself,” Aragron says. “If any urgent matters arise, the Queen speaks for me. I will return before dawn.”

Ludovir is easy enough to follow on description alone and Aragorn soon arrives at tavern on the 2nd level. It seems populated entirely by bards and playwrights if the din of music competing with poetry and puppetry is anything to go by. Ludovir sits at a corner able with three other men, the four of them poring over several pages laid out atop the table. The man across from Ludovir shakes his head and says something about “too much.” Ludovir sighs and apparently lowers his price as soon the other man has gathered up the pages and handed over a few coins to Ludovir. Ludovir pockets the money and jumps up from the table, grabbing his violin from beneath the table and beating a hasty retreat out into the city.

Aragorn next tracks him to a market on the 3rd level. Ludovir spends quite a long time debating between purchasing a loaf of bread or a bottle of wine, eventually deciding on the latter. From there Ludovir walks throughout the city for several hours, winding through the 4th, 5th, and 6th levels before descending all the way to the 1st at sunset. He picks his way through rubble from the Siege of Minas Tirith that has yet to be cleared away.

Ludovir stops at a three-story building. Its doorway has been blocked by a piece of the outer wall that must have been knocked loose by a catapult strike. Ludvor climbs up the debris and climbs into a second flor window. As Aragorn moves closer, he hears music drifting down to the street below. It is not the sound of a violin which Aragorn hears, though he cannot quite determine what instrument Ludovir plays by sound alone. Aragorn waits.

Several stars have dotted the night sky when Ludovir emerges from the window. He clambers unsteadily down the chunk of stone obstructing the doorway. Watching Ludovir treck back up the road, Aragorn glances around to be certain no other eyes are upon him then climbs up into Ludovir’s apartment himself.

The room is not small but it feels cramped by clutter. A large writing desk and a rather large table wedged next to it. A small bench sits before the large table and two candlesticks, still lit, sit atop the table. These being the only pieces of furniture in the room, the rest of the space is covered with music. Waist-high stacks of paper line the walls and dot the floor. As Aragorn rounds the large table, he realizes it is not a table at all and must be the mystery instrument he heard earlier in the night. Aragorn takes one of the candlesticks and uses it to better illuminate a page left on the writing desk, its ink still wet. _~~2/4 Funeral March~~ Cantata for Boromir the Fair. _Next to this is a quick sketch of the Horn of Gondor being split by a lightning bolt. Beneath the drawing are many indecipherable symbols and _search the Old Place for texts._

“The Old Place,” Aragorn repeats aloud softly. “Now where is that?” He takes one last slow look around the apartment but there is not much left to see. Putting the candle back in its place, Aragorn creeps back out of the window.

“Are you an assassin,” Ludovir’s voice startles Aragorn and he whirls around, knife in hand. Ludovir sways drunkenly and continues, “You would be doing me a favor.” His inebriated state and the dark of night has prevented Ludovir from recognizing his king.

Aragorn sheathes his knife. “I am no assassin,” He says. “I was…looking for a place to sleep.”

Ludovir nods sagely. He points to the window and says, “That is a room for working, not sleeping. I recommend the Theater in the Wall on the 2nd level. The stage door is always unlocked. If you do happen upon any assassins on your way there, please direct them to me because, try as I might, I cannot seem to write myself to death.” With that, he turns and begins to climb up to the apartment.

Aragorn knows he should leave avoid giving away his identity but he cannot help his curiosity, “Why do you wish to die?”

Ludovir sighs heavily and falls backwards to lean against the debris. “Because I told King Elessar that I would memorialize Lord Boromir with the greatest cantata ever written and now he expects me to do it.”

Knowing he might not get another opportunity for an honest answer to his next question, Aragorn asks, “What do you think of King Elessar?”

Ludovir laughs and says, “I think that he is the worst king this country has ever had, apart from all the other kings.”

“Would you have preferred for the line of Stewards to rule Gondor,?” Aragor asks.

Ludovir shakes his head. “Hardly. In fact, I’ll tell you a secret,” Ludovir whispers loudly and leans down. “But you cannot tell anyone!” Aragorn leans forward as well. “Boromir would have preferred for the Stewardship not to continue either!” Ludovir smiles, hiccups, and makes the rest of his way up to the apartment.

“So,” Arwen says as Aragorn takes off his disguise, “What did you learn?”

“He led me to believe that he views bards as lesser artists but he is willing enough to sell them the means to earn their living. He would rather spend what money he makes selling songs on wine than bread and jests about suicide.” Aragorn pauses thoughtfully. Finally, he says, “I think his heart is truly heavy at Boromir’s death and I think I am beginning to understand why Faramir dislikes him. He is mercurial.”

“He is an artist,” Arwen says. “And yet Boromir and he were close enough that the warrior’s death leads the musician to contemplate his own,” Arwen says.

Aragorn has taken to doing practice drills with the Kings guard in the morning. It is a good morale boost for the men and an opportunity for Aragorn to reframe his perspective. The world always seems a bit clearer when he has a sword in his hand. This is where Faramir finds him.

“You will never guess who has arrived and is demanding to speak with you,” Faramir says.

Aragorn drops his arm to his side and asks, “Who?”

“Ludovir. What happened last night?” Faramir asks.

Aragorn shakes his head as he sheathes his sword. “Nothing of significance. We spoke briefly but he didn’t recognize me. I could not help but ask his opinion of the king,” Aragorn says.

Faramir rolls his eyes, ”He’s an anarchist. You cannot trust what he says. The truth for him is a malleable thing,” Faramir says.

“Why do you distrust him so?” Aragorn asks. He sheathes his sword and begins to walk towards the main hall. Faramir follows a step behind.

“Because I know him,” Faramir said.

Aragorn chooses his next words carefully, “I think your opinion of him might be influenced by your feelings about his relationship with Boromir.” Faramir stops so abruptly and silently that Aragorn has already gone several paces further before realizing and turning around. He gives Faramir a puzzled look. “What is it.”

“Ludovir is a parasite!” Farmair finally says. “He manipulated my brother, and my mother before him, asking for gifts of money, lodging, furniture, and food all in exchange for music that cannot bear to be heard. He is cunning. He wants something from you and if he is back here so soon then it’s because he thinks he has worked out how to get it.”

Aragron considers Faramirs. Words. Finally, he says, “I do trust your counsel. I will watch Ludovir’s actions closely and listen to his words carefully. I will not be seduced,” Aragorn says solemnly. Faramir nods once and both men resume walking.

Ludovir is inspecting a statue of one of the kings of old with his back turned away from the entrance to the King’s Hall.

“Master Ludovir, I did not expect to see you returned so quickly to this hall. Have you already completed the cantata?” Aragorn asks. Ludovir does not turn around. In fact, he leans closerto the statue to get a good look at Anor’s boots.

“Ludovir!” Faramir nearly shouts loud enough to make Aragorn wince. Ludovir’s head pops up and he turns to face the other two men.

“My king,” Ludovir says, bowing deeply. “I have a grave request to make of you. You may not have heard but I have a certain reputation and many enemies in this city. I have feared for some time that without Lord Boromir’s protection, my life would be at stake and an attack last night confirmed those fears.” Aragorn opens his mouth to inquire further but Ludovir carries on. “I was visited by an assassin.”

Aragorn blinks. It is a subtle reaction but Faramir notices and his eyes light up when he makes the connection between Ludovir’s story and Aragorn’s encounter with him. “An assassin?” Aragorn asks.

Ludovir nods emphatically and continues, “He carried a wicked blade, Elvish if I am not mistaken. And he made threats against my life.” Ludovir speaks so earnestly that Aragorn almost believes him.

Faramir catches Aragorn’s eye and he gives his king a knowing look before asking, “What cause would anyone have to assassinate you?”

Ludovir glances away as though he loathes the thought of having to admit to some secret. Then he meets Aragorn’s eyes and says, “There have long been despicable accusations made against my character that I was disloyal to the Steward. There are now those who say I am disloyal to you, my King. Some even believe that I incited Boromir against the return of the king. These are all falsehoods. At any rate, the killer snuck into my home while I was out and waited for my return. He said if I completed and dedicated any new work to Boromir, that I would pay for the act with my life.”

Aragorn marvels at how Ludovir can appear so guileless while fabricating such a detailed version of events from the night before. He marvels also at the position Ludovir has put him in. _He wants something from you and he thinks he has worked out how to get it._ He cannot confront Ludovir over his lies here as there are several guards and servants stationed around the room who would learn their king spies on his own people. “So, you seek my protection,” Aragorn surmises.

Ludovir holds his hands out and says, “I seek whatever aid you might give me so that I may complete the task that is laid before me.”

Aragorn considers his options. He is beginning to think it would be better to have Ludovir close, that he might learn more about Boromir and determine whether this strange musician was any kind of true threat to his rule over Gondor. “When you served the Steward,” Aragorn begins, “Did you have quarters in the castle?”

Try as he might to school his features, Ludovir cannot hide a twitch of his lips at Aragorn’s words. “Yes, with the rest of the servants,” he says.

Aragorn nods and says, “You shall be a guest here, not a servant.”

“My lord,” Faramir says, taking a step forward.

Aragorn holds up his hand to forestall the other man. “I would like to hear more of your history with Boromir, for you seem to know a side of him which few others knew existed,” Aragorn says.

Ludovir smiles. “You may come to regret that request for I have much to tell,” He says.

“Where may I send movers to gather your belongings?” Aragorn asks, studiously ignoring Faramir’s gob smacked look.

“My workrooms are In what used to be the 1st level’s music district. It is now mostly a shambles. Tell your movers to ask “where does Ludovir’ live and they will be shown to the right lodging. Your kindness knows no bounds, my lord. You are the finest king to have walked these halls in an age. If I may take my leave, I will return to prepare for the transport,” Ludovir says. Aragorn nods and Ludovir turns on his heel and leaves the great hall.

Aragorn is slow to face Faramir, knowing the look he will find on his Steward’s face. Faramir inhales deeply before speaking. “Well,” he says slowly. “I can only hope that conversation went exactly as you had planned it since it did not go the way I was expecting.”

“Not quite,” Aragron says. “That man could find work on any stage with the performance he just put on. Last night he said I was the worst king Gondor had apart from all the other kings.”

Faramir snorts at that and recalls, “He once wrote a song which nearly started a riot when I was in my thirteenth year. The refrain became quite popular among the anarchists: Gondor has no king and Gondor needs no Steward. Boromir could not stop singing it whenever our father was out of earshot.”

Aragorn gains a glimmer of understanding. “I imagine It was the closest he could get to rebelling against Denethor’s authority,” he says.

“Which is really not very far when you think about it,” Faramir says. “I will be returning to Edoras.”

“Why?” Aragorn asked. “Your insight about Ludovir is invaluable.”

Farami grins grimly and does not meet Aragorn’s eyes when he says, “I have given you what insight I can, but I cannot remain within these walls while he does as well. That’s twice now I’ve had to refrain from punching him in the face and I cannot do it much longer. There’s no need to fear for your safety. He is no physical threat to you, but you should remain wary nonetheless. And be especially wary of his music.”

Aragorn nods and says, “Very well. You have my leave to return to Rohan. Give Eowyn our love.”

“Who knew there was such intrigue in the house of Hurin?” Arwen says after Aragorn has relayed his conversations with Faramir and Ludovir to her at the midday meal.

“Who indeed?” Aragorn echoes.

At Arwen’s suggestion, rooms are prepared for Ludovir in the same wing that housed Boromir’s. Once he has concluded the day’s affairs, Aragorn makes his way towards them. He finds Ludovir carefully inspecting several musical instruments which he had brought with him including the contraption Aragorn had seen earlier. In the corner lies a trunk with the lid cast open, stuffed full of Ludovir’s compositions.

“Nothing has been damaged, Master Ludovir,” Aragorn assures from the doorway. Ludovir does not respond but continues to rotate a trumpet this way and that. Aragorn takes a few steps into the room and repeats, “Master Ludovir?” Aragorn reaches a hand out and before he has done more than grazed Ludovir’s shoulder with his fingertips the other man whirls around and gasps in fright.

Ludovir clutches his chest with his right hand. “Please do not startle me so!” he says stridently.

“I called your name twice,” Aragorn says in his defense.

“Did you?” Ludovir asks. “Sometimes I find myself occupied with a such a beautiful and deep thought that I cannot bear to be disturbed. In the future, please say my name louder. Shout it if you must, but do not lay hands on me when my back is turned.” Aragorn’s eyes widen at what sounds very much like an order. “The good news is,” Ludovir says while he waves the horn in Aragorn’s face, “The A flat crook is not missing.”

“Do you play all of these?” Aragorn asks, gesturing at the two other horns and flute. Ludovir’s violin lays upon the still-unknown massive musical instrument.

“Not very well,” Ludovir admits with a smile.

“And what about this?” Aragorn asks as he steps in for a closer look at the mystery instrument.

“Ah that!” Ludwig says with pride. “I call it a hammer harp,” Ludovir says.

“I have never seen nor heard of such an instrument,” Aragron says.

“I expect not for this is the only one in existence. I invented it,” Ludovir explains. He brushes beside Aragorn and lefts what turns out to be the lid. Inside lies a harp on its with a row of wooden hammers set above the strings. Ludovir lowers the lid and walks to the other side of the instrument. “Come to this side,” he says, and Aragorn obliges. He looks where Ludovir points an listens while the other man explains, “Each of these keys is attached to a hammer,” Ludovir says. He points his forefinger to a specific key and continues, “Strike this one.” Aragorn hits the key with his own index finger and a loud tone emanates from the body of the hammer harp. Aragorn strikes the key again, harder this time. The tone is even louder this time. Ludovir grins and says, “I find hammering harp strings to be far more satisfying than plucking them.”

Aragorn takes a step back and gestures to the hammer harp, “Would you play something for me?” he asks.

Ludovir nods and takes a seat at the bench. He lays one hand on the keys while thoughtfully tapping his chin with the other. Then he says, “I shall improvise for you, but I need a subject. Describe the queen to me in three words.”

Aragorn considers his words carefully and finally says simply, “Like a dream.”

Ludovir nods and repeats the words, “Like a dream. Like a…a dream-dream.” He sets both hands on the keys and begins to play.

The music is soft and slow and lulls Aragorn into a state of distraction. He does not know how long it goes on, only that when Ludovir stops playing he finds himself at the window, staring at a full moon in the midnight sky. He whirls around to face Ludovir and says, “It was dusk only a moment ago!”

Ludovir looks out the window, puzzled. “Was it?” he asks.

“It has been several moments since dusk,” Arwen says from the doorway. “You are late for supper.”

Ludovir rises immediately from his seat and bows deeply, “My lady!” he says breathlessly. “Forgive me for keeping your husband from you.”

“There is nothing to forgive. Indeed, I believe my husband enjoyed your music more than he would have the meal that was served this evening,”

Aragorn looks in wonder at Ludovir and his hammer harp. “How can Faramir speak so ill of your music?” he asks in bewilderment.

Arwen says with a wry smile. “It must have been enchanting.”

Ludovir tilts his head side to side then gestures to the instrument and taps out a few notes on the hammer harp. Finally he says, “You would have to ask Lord Faramir what it is he dislikes specifically, although I’m certain that even he would admit to enjoying these sorts of musical portraits. I was playing you,” Ludovir gestures politely at Arwen, “Or at least how I imagined you based on his description.”

Aragron walks to the doorway and nearly drags Arwen back towards the large instrument, “You must improvise something for her!” he says emphatically.

Ludovir blinks several times. His face cracks into a peculiar expression and he says, “Well, if I must then I shall.” He turns to face the keyboard again, then looks to Arwen and asks, “Please forgive my ignorance of our queen’s biography, but from which Elven realm do you hail?”

“I was raised in Imladris. My father is Lord Elrond of the Last Homely House,” Arwen said. She walked slowly around the hammer harp, inspecting it intently.

Ludovir nods slowly. “Yes, I think I have something to enchant you as well,” he says with a wink.

What Ludovir plays for Arwen is entirely different than what Aragorn has heard on the previous occasions of listening to Ludovir perform. Not 10 seconds into the piece, Arwen grins and tilts her head in bemusement. The music is light and playful and Aragorn is reminded of watching two wolf pups engage in a ferociously harmless fight. When Ludovir draws the piece to a close Arwen claps in delight.

“How did you learn this melody?” Arwen asks. “It is known only to my family.”

“Early in my musical education I learned from the Elf Minstrel Daeron. Other Elves were also studying with this master, among them the twin sons of Elrond, who wished to mock me by teaching me their sister’s favorite lullaby,” Ludovir explains. “Little did they know I would find myself with just this opportunity to charm her so many years later.”

“So that was you in the music hall at Lothlorien,” Arwen says.

A crease forms between Ludovir’s brows, “Pardon me.”

“I visited my brothers when they were learning to the play the harp from Daeron. In the midst of a concert a young man burst into the hall and began smashing all of the harps to pieces with a large hammer,” Arwen says. “Do you truly not remember me?”

Lduovir gapes for a moment before blushing lightly and saying “I know the event you speak of. I do not rise to anger often, but my rage can be blinding and I do have a vague recollection of a feminine presence.”

“I always wondered what drove your rage that day,” Arwen says.

“At the time I thought my world was ending. Daeron had refused to take me on as a full apprentice because he did not believe I had the proper temperament for a composer,” Ludovir explains. “Obviously the display you witnessed did not help my case.”

“Nonetheless, you seem to have done quite well without the apprenticeship,” Arwen says with a smile.

Ludovir nodded and continued, “It was in the midst of my despair, wandering about Middle Earth in despair of ever achieving any greatness in the world of music, that I had the good fortune to happen upon Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth. She was also in despair over having to leave her home to wed a man she didn’t like, but I was able to comfort her with the sound of my violin. And that is how I came to be in the service of the Steward of Gondor.”

Arwen runs her hand lightly over the keys of the hammer harp. “Will you dine with us, Master Ludovir?” she asks. “I should like to hear more of your musical education with Daeron.”

Ludovir stands quickly, “I would be delighted!” he says, although his expression grows somewhat pained. “I do hope that the dessert is exceedingly sweet because my memories of those days are exceedingly bitter.”

When the three exit Ludovir’s rooms, Aragron and Arwen turn right while Ludovir turns left.

“The dining hall is this way,” Aragorn says and points in the proper direction.

Ludovir shakes his head and says, “Follow me. I know a shortcut.”

The shortcut is a dark, hidden passageway that starts in a linen closet. Someone has helpfully left a small dusty torch just inside the secret hallway to help light the way. Ludovir pulls a flint and stone from his pocket and sparks the torch to life.

They do not travel across any staircases, but Aragorn gets the distinct feeling of downward motion as the three of them wind through the hallway. Aragorn and Arwen share a glance, both quite curious as to where this secret passage leads. It ends at a door. Aragorn puts his ear to the door to ensure the next room is empty before he, Ludovir, and Arwen enter. Aragorn snuffs out the torch and leaves it in the hallway.

“The wine cellar!” Arwen declares with a laugh. She looks at the rows of shelves and asks, “What should we pair with smoked fish?”

Ludovir moves to a shelf on the far wall and plucks out a bottle. He examines it closely and declares, “This red will go nicely with anything,” he says.

“How did you learn of this hidden passage?” Aragorn asks.

“During our first weeks in the palace when we were not both otherwise occupied, my Lady and I would explore each and every room and hall. It was a good way to pass the time and ease a bit of her homesickness,” Ludovir says as he leads the way up the stairs into the kitchen.

“You and the Lady Finduilas were rather close,” Arwen surmises ambiguously.

Ludovir pauses in his ascent. Eventually he nods and says, “We bonded early on over her affliction and my capacity to soothe it.”

“Affliction?” Aragorn asks.

“Yes, a powerful malady that she and I shared, and even her elder son suffered from it.” Ludovir hesitates dramatically before he says one word with a sad smile, “Melancholy.” Ludovir shrugs and continues up the stairs. He holds open the door to the kitchen so the King and Queen may pass through. Following them, he says, “Did people make assumptions and start rumors about our relationship? Yes.”

“Yet Denethor allowed you to remain a servant in his court,” Arwen says keenly.

“Melancholy is a condition noticeably worsened by prolonged exposure to our late Steward and so my services were greatly needed while his wife lived,” Ludovir explains as he continues to lead the way through the kitchen. The hour is late enough that the cooks and sculleries have gone home for the night but not so late that the maids have extinguished the candles that light the room. “For this reason alone, it seems my presence was tolerated. It was decidedly less tolerated once my Lady had died. I think were it not for Boromir’s intervention I might have been banished from the kingdom altogether and not just this fair city.” Ludovir’s eyes alight on a plate of pastries that sit innocuously on a countertop and he snatches it with both hands. He says pointedly to Arwen, “It is very important that these do not last the night!” 

The dining hall was in a similarly lit but abandoned state, save for the table which was set for three. Ludovir frowns at the third place setting as he sets the wine and desserts on the table. “Were you anticipating another guest?” he asks.

Arwen winks and says, “Just you.”

The meal is delicious, if cold.

“To begin with, you must tell me how you came to be a student of Daeron,” Arwen demands.

“It’s a rather simple story actually. I had learned all that the race of men knew about music and what we knew was not enough to achieve my purpose,” Ludovir pauses to drink.

“To proclaim the glory of Gondor,” Aragorn answers Arewen’s question before she asks.

“So, I left the realm of Men to learn from those that taught us music in the first place. It took two years to find Daeron and 3 months to convince him to tutor me but convince him I did,” Ludovir said proudly. “I learned much from him but, as the Queen knows, we had a rather dramatic parting of ways. What it came down to is that there had always been a tension between myself and him based on a fundamental disagreement about the nature of music. He believes that at its heart music is an art of pleasing.”

“And what do you believe?” Aragorn asks.

Ludovir stayed mysteriously silent as he glances between Aragorn and Arwen. “I will remain as much of an open book to you as I can but there are some questions about my art that I cannot answer. For, in answering them, I would fundamentally change the way you perceive it,” he says.

Aragorn and Arwen share a look across the dining table. “Very well then,” Aragorn says. “Tell us about The Stone Maiden.”

Ludovir groans painfully but obliges, “The Stone Maiden is the 3rd play this season to center around a Dwarf man who is shockingly mistaken for a Dwarf woman. You see, this is a turn away from the typical Dwarvish sex comedies, which center around Dwarf women who are mistaken for Dwarf men.”

Arwen’s eyes widen in shock. “Dwarvish sex comedies?” she whispers.

“Oh yes! Although some of the librettists are beginning to turn towards drama,” Ludovir says. He barks a laugh suddenly and fumbles his hand into a coat pocket, withdrawing small notebook and pencil. He jots down notes furiously for one minute. Once finished, he puts the notebook and pencil back in his pocket. “If I’m lucky, they’ll have moved onto tragedy in another 5 seasons so I can be freed from the constraints of gross humor. If I’m very lucky, I will be freed from having to write for plays altogether.”

“Would you speak to us of Boromir?” Arwen asks. Aragorn flinches at the question. He had been planning to ease into the topic. “I only ever knew him from afar and my husband knew him only briefly.”

Ludovir takes a long drink from his glass while a puzzling look passes across his features. Eventually, he said, “As you must have gathered from my early acquaintance with Lady Finduilas, I knew Boromir from the day he was born. I was fortunate enough to be a presence in his childhood development. But after his mother’s death and my dismissal, it was another ten years before I met him again. He was a striking young man but…it seemed as if every bit of softness that had been present when I knew him earlier had been beaten out of him. I made a determination then to beat some of it back in.”

“And how does one beat softness into a man?” Aragorn asks, not entirely expecting an answer.

Ludovir grins mischievously at this and says, “Very delicately.”

Once the wine and pastries have vanished from the table, Ludovir regretfully asks for leave to retire to his bedchamber for he needed to wake early in the morning for a final rehearsal of the Stone Maiden. While Aragorn senses no actual falsehood in the words themselves, he does detect mild dishonesty in Ludovir’s voice. 

Arwen notices her husband’s perturbed gaze as he watches Ludovir’s exit and says, “I hope you aren’t planning another late night out.”

“Not too late,” Aragorn says. For good measure he adds, “And I will stay within the castle walls.”

*********************88

If anyone were to ask, though no one ever does, why Boromir’s rooms had still not been cleared out 18 months after his death, Aragorn would have no real answer. The truth is that he found himself incapable of ordering the task for the same reason Denethor could not. It would be the last act in admitting that the brave warrior had in fact died. As he sits back in the darkest corner of the main room which is lit only by the moonlight breaking through the curtains in the window, Aragorn wonders how long Ludovir will wait before venturing into his old friend’s living space again. Not very long, as it turns out, for Aragorn has barely situated himself when the door begins to open.

Ludovir steps assuredly into the room, holding a small candle that provides only slight illumination. Immediately, Ludovir walks into the bedroom and directly towards a large wardrobe. He sets the candle on a side table and opens the wardrobe doors wide. Rummaging through the various garments inside, he eventually pulls out a worn leather jerkin. Ludovir holds it to his face and inhales deeply, then puts the jerkin on over his own clothes.

Next, Ludovir kneels down and opens a drawer at the base of the wardrobe. He pulls out more clothes and then removes a stack of papers. Rifling through them carelessly, he mutters, “You were such a sentimental fool. Aha!” He jumps to his feet and grabs the candle to read the page he has selected, nodding his head. He puts the rest of the papers back in the drawer, then the clothes on top, and closes the drawer. He turns and walks quickly from the room, slamming the door closed.

Aragorn waits 5 heartbeats before rising from his place. He walks with trepdation towards the wardrobe, as if an overcoat might leap from within and strike him down. Aragorn frowns in confusion after removing the clothes lying in the drawer, finding it empty. Then he sees. It. The drawer has a false bottom. Removing that also, Aragorn spies the trove of papers. He takes them out with far more care than Ludovir had shown.

Having no candle himself, Aragorn moves nearer to the window so that he might read by the moonlight. The first several pages are military maneuvers. These are followed by illustrations of orc weapons and descriptions of the type of armor they can pierce and the types they cannot. Then a scrap of paper… _Dearest B. I saw a lark ascending during my morning walk and thought of you. You must bring me strawberry rolls when you come to Meduseld._ The handwriting is more ornate than Boromir’s and there is no signature. The next page has a fragment of a battle plan on one side and on the other is a note in Boromir’s handwriting. _I saw a horse shitting during my morning walk and thought of you. -B._

On the following page is a drawing far more intricately detailed than the weapons. Aragorn’s mouth drops open in shock at what he sees. It is a man’s chest and arms. The chest is marred by scars. There is evidence of an arrow wound and at least one knife strike. But Aragorn’s eye is captivated by a long twisting scar that winds down towards the man’s navel. At certain points along its trail, many smaller scars branch out like tree limbs. The drawing runs out of paper before for the scar reaches the end of its path.

The next several pages are poems in many different hands, none of them belonging to Boromir or the stranger. These are followed by several pages of music that must be decades old with the heading _Funeral March for the Lady Finduilas._ Following this is another note in Boromir’s hand: _M, reply to this immediately so that I may know you are still alive. -B._

Aragorn looks up from the correspondence and contemplates the remains of a life once lived.

In the morning he attempts to assign a bodyguard to Ludovir. The other man makes a lot of noise about being able to move freely about the city, but Aragorn uses Ludovir’s own fabrication to his advantage and argues with utmost sincerity about the need to keep a valued artist safe from assassins.

“In fact,” Aragorn says in a moment of inspiration, “I shall accompany you myself. You can introduce me to the musicians who may one day be members of your guild.” Aragorn takes no small amount of satisfaction as he watches Ludovir grind his teeth in frustration.

“I think the king in his royal robes accompanying me would cause an even greater disturbance than soldiers,” Ludovir says.

Aragorn grins and says, “Certainly, I will be traveling with you in disguise. I’ll even put a bit of charcoal in my beard!”

Ludovir nods and smiles falsely. “Well, I suppose I should consider myself lucky to be guarded by none other than the king of Gondor,” he said. “Shall I wait for you at the gate?” Aragorn nods. Ludovir nods back, turns sharply on his heel, and storms away.

Aragorn had half-expected Ludovir to have left on his own anyway, but true to his word Ludovir is waiting for him by the gate, rather impatiently if his aggressive foot-tapping is anything to go by. When he catches sight of Aragorn, Ludovir’s mouth drops open in shock. “What a difference a bit charcoal makes,” he says. Aragorn nods at the soldier’s manning the gates and they step aside to let king and composer pass through.

Aragorn expects that Ludovir will try to lose him in the city, but instead the composer strolls at a steady pace and engages in conversation. He pesters Aragorn for details about Boromir’s various exploits with the fellowship. He is most curious about Boromir’s experience of Rivendell.

“I told him he ought to explore the Hall of Relics in Rivendell, there is a magnificent tapestry capturing the moment Isildur cut the One Ring from Sauron’s hand,’ Ludovir says.

“He saw it,” Aragorn says.

“And what did he have to say about it?” Ludovir asks.

Aragorn shrugs and says, “I know not. His attention was drawn to the shards of Narsil.”

Ludovir shakes his head with a laugh and says, “Of course it was. Did you know Boromir had skill with a pencil and with charcoal as well?”

Was this a test?

“I did not,” Aragorn said slowly. Then, “Not until recently. I discovered some etchings among Boromir’s possessions after his death. I wasn’t certain who the artist was as they did not have a signature.”

“Can you imagine if he had pursued the visual rather than the martial arts what his life would have been? Would he have died such a grisly death?” Ludovir asks philosophically.

Aragorn counters Ludovir’s argument, saying “Boromir died a noble a death.”

Ludovir waves off the notion and says, “Bah! There is no such thing as a noble death. Just a quiet one or a loud one. Oh, I nearly forgot!” Ludovir stops abruptly and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Read this, it is the text for the Cantata. Each labeled section will have its own musical theme upon which I shall build the instrumental accompaniment.” He hands the paper over to Aragorn who reads the words silently.

_Cantata on the Death of Boromir II_

**_Coro_ **

_Dead: a moon drifts through the black night,_

_Echoes like a sob against the cliffs,_

_And you, waves of the sea, cry it out_

_In your abyss:_

_Boromir, the Great One, is dead!_

_Boromir, the Fair, is dead—dead!_

**_Recitativo_ **

_A monster, whose name is Fear_

_Arose from the depths of Mordor,_

_Draped himself between the sun and the earth, and it became night!_

**_Aria_ **

_Then came Boromir with the strength of the Valar_

_He tore the raging monster_

_And trod on his head_

**_Aria Con Coro_ **

_The people then emerged into the light_

_And the sun warmed_

_With the rays of Heaven_

**_Recitativo E Aria_ **

_He sleeps now, far from the cares of his worlds._

_Silent is the night,_

_Only a quivering breeze touches my cheek_

_Like a breath from the grave._

_Whoever’s immortal soul you are,_

_Gentle breeze waft more gently,_

_For here lies Boromir in his grave_

_And sleeps the sleep of peace._

**_Aria_ **

_Here slumbers the great warrior in tranquil peace;_

_He, who on Middle Earth broke no rose without a wound,_

_Who under the burden of his heart_

_Bore the well-being of the world with pain until his last breath._

**_Coro_ **

_Dead: a moon drifts through the black night,_

_Echoes like a sob against the cliffs,_

_And you, waves of the sea, cry it out_

_In your abyss:_

_Boromir, the Great One, is dead!_

_Boromir, the Fair, is dead—dead!_

**Author's Note:**

> This all started with "How can I fit my obssession with Beethoven into my obssession with LOTR"  
> The text for the Cantata is in fact modified from the Cantata on the Death Holy Roman Emperor Joseph II, a piece that Beethoven wrote but was never performed in his lifetime because the musicians couldn't play it.


End file.
